A Fountain Filled With Blood

by Julia Spencer-Fleming

  Clare felt almost giddy with relief. “Speaking of the dogs, where are—” A chorus of happy dog noises cut off her sentence.

  “The hairy beasts are out back, on the patio. We’re taking advantage of the breeze. I decided to have dinner at 6:00 because Emil gets tired so early, but it’ll work out perfectly with the weather. The thunderstorms should hold off for a few more hours. That gives us lots of time to eat, talk, and swill down this very nice merlot you’ve brought.”

  “Oh, Lord,” Hugh said. “I hope mine isn’t the only drink available. From what I’ve seen of the vicar, she’ll polish it off before the hors d’oeuvres.” He grinned at Clare, who elbowed him in the ribs.

  Paul led them through the living room and dining room to a set of French doors open to the evening light. The dogs rushed them in a wiggling mass of silky hair and wet noses as they came out onto the flagstone patio. Clare scratched their heads and shoulders as they ecstatically butted against her linen shift.

  “Go lie down, Bob.” Paul tugged at the Bern’s collar. “No, Gal. Down.” The dogs retreated to a spot beneath a glass-topped iron table already set for dinner. “No,” Paul warned. The dogs gave him a pitiful look and dragged themselves into banishment next to a low stone wall. “Hey, Emil. This is Clare and her friend Hugh Parteger.”

  With the help of a cane, Emil Dvorak rose from one of the teak benches that edged the patio. Clare took his outstretched hand.

  “I’m happy to meet you,” he said. He had a precise, almost European way of talking. His speech evidently hadn’t been affected by his brain trauma. “Paul’s told me so many wonderful things about you. Thank you for everything you’ve done.”

  She felt her cheeks go pink. “It wasn’t anything.” Where he grasped his cane, his knuckles were white. “Please, sit down.” Beside the medical examiner, Russ had risen, as well. He nodded to her.

  “Reverend Fergusson.”

  “Chief Van Alstyne.” She tucked her hand behind Hugh’s elbow and pulled him forward. “I’d like you to meet Hugh Parteger. Hugh, this is Russ Van Alstyne.”

  Russ was in his civvies, but as he shook hands with the Englishman, he managed to make jeans and a button-down shirt look like a uniform. “What brings you to Millers Kill?” he asked. It sounded like the beginning of an interrogation, rather than a social pleasantry.

  As Hugh explained his presence in Russ’s jurisdiction, Paul dragged over a pair of slouchy canvas chairs and offered two glasses of fruit-clotted sangria. “Mrs. Van Alstyne’s using the little girls’ room,” he said, and, as if called by his words, Margy waltzed through the French doors.

  “Clare!” She hugged her firmly. “And who is this Russ is talking to? Is this good-looking fellow your date?”

  Clare introduced the two. Hugh looked relieved to have someone to speak with besides Russ, who, when Clare pressed one of the glasses of sangria into Hugh’s hand, asked, “One of you is a designated driver tonight, right?”

  They all sat down, ranged around Dr. Dvorak. Seven weeks after his near-fatal beating, Emil Dvorak looked frail and stitched together. His hair was a stubble of new growth around pink lines of scars, and the left side of his face wasn’t quite symmetrical with the right—his eye didn’t open as wide and his smile didn’t reach as far. But as he told them stories about his hospital stay, he spoke clearly, displaying an acerbic humor that she liked right away.

  The conversation turned to health care, with Margy Van Alstyne telling them the trials of life under Medicare and Hugh weighing in on the British National Health system. Clare let the talk flow around her while she sipped her icy sangria. It wasn’t until she accepted Paul’s offer of a second glass that Russ spoke to her.

  “You’re not going to want to break into their bedroom and climb out the bathroom window if you have that, are you?”

  She snorted. The other four looked at her with polite incomprehension. “Just…it’s a long story,” she said. “I was trying to find out more about Malcolm Wintour.”

  “I trust they’re going to put him away for a long time,” Hugh said.

  “The victim’s advocate interviewed me,” Emil said. “She told me Wintour’s going to plead guilty to possession and dealing but is trying to duck the murder charges.”

  Russ pinched the bridge of his nose. “The DA thinks she won’t have much of a problem hanging Chris Dessaint’s death on him, but conspiracy’s difficult to prove, and we haven’t been able to give her much evidence.” He looked at Clare. “From what we can tell, Peggy was giving orders to her nephew, who, in turn, was giving orders to Chris Dessaint, who was bringing in Colvin and McKinley.”

  Clare’s shoulders twitched. “It’s like puppets playing puppets.”

  “Yeah. But there’s not much of a paper trail, other than a few phone calls from Wintour’s cell phone to Dessaint. And with Peggy and Dessaint both dead, there isn’t much hope of ever getting all the details. I tell you what really bugs me.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “We still don’t know how Peggy hooked up with Chris Dessaint.”

  “I thought Malcolm was the one giving him orders,” Clare said.

  “He was. But Wintour didn’t know him before. He claims his aunt fingered Dessaint, gave him his name and phone number.” He made a noise of frustration. “You can imagine how hard it’s going to be to get the conspiracy charge to stick.” He glanced around at the others, as if recalling that he wasn’t in a private conversation. “But to get back to Mr. Parteger’s statement…You can rest assured that the three surviving stooges will be going away for a long, long time.”

  Emil smiled slightly. “You know, I don’t really care. Nearly dying has a way of giving you perspective.” He looked at his partner, the strained lines of his square face softening. “We all have only so much time. I don’t want to waste what’s left to me on things that aren’t important.”

  Paul smiled back. “And that makes me think,” he said. “Clare, how did your candlelight vigil go?”

  “Huh? Oh, it was great. More people than I expected.” Thanks to Todd MacPherson’s new friends from the Adirondack Pride team, she said to herself. She had spent much of the evening dodging their attempts to interview her. She wanted to do the work she needed to do, but she wasn’t interested in becoming their poster priest.

  “What did your congregation think of it?”

  “I think it boosted attendance the next Sunday. I actually had forty people in the pews.” She decided not to mention that half of them had wanted a “little word” with her about her activism.

  “Good,” Paul said. He took his partner’s hand and breathed deeply. “Because Emil and I would like to ask you to marry us.”

  Clare blinked.

  “Well, I guess that calls for congratulations,” Margy said stoutly. Hugh and Russ glanced at each other. Hugh cleared his throat.

  “Yes, congrats and best wishes,” he said.

  Everyone looked at Clare. In the meadow beyond the overgrown lawn, cicadas were chirping their end-of-August call. The thick wineglass suddenly felt heavy in her hand. “New York State doesn’t recognize same-sex marriages,” she said, throwing out the first thing she could think of. “No ceremony is legally valid, no matter who officiates.”

  “We know,” Paul said. “We can call it a commitment ceremony or a celebration of union. The important thing is, we want to stand up together and make promises in front of our friends and family. We want to say we’ll be together until we die.”

  “The church I was raised in can’t do this for us,” Emil said. “But I have…reconnected to the fact that my belief in God is part of my life. I know that the Episcopal church is more liberal about these issues.”

  “The church is in conflict about these issues,” Clare said, stressing the word conflict. “Some dioceses allow commitment ceremonies, or at least look the other way while individual priests perform them. But the bishop of Albany—my bishop—is a traditionalist.” Not wanting the bishop to come across as some sort of hide-
bound old crank, she added, “I mean, he’s very much in favor of civil rights for gays and for including them—you—in the church community. Just…not…”

  “Just not giving the stamp of approval to them actually living together,” Russ said.

  She shot him a look. He should talk, Mr. I’m Uncomfortable Around Them. “Please try to understand,” she said. “I don’t have the authority to decide policy on my own. I’m part of a hierarchy, under the direction of my bishop, who’s under the direction of the General Convention. It’s not that I’m against it, but I…”

  They were all watching her dig her own grave. Paul looked as if she had gotten up and kicked Bob and Gal. Emil’s face was sinking into lines of resignation. And Russ looked…disappointed in her.

  You like to live on the edge, don’t you, Fergusson?

  Make whole that which is broken.

  “But I have to live as I believe Christ leads me. If that doesn’t sound too pompous.” She laid one hand on Paul’s arm and one on Emil’s. “Yes. Okay. I will celebrate your union.”

  Dinner was a much more festive affair after that, although Clare had to work at ignoring what might happen to her if—when—her bishop found out what she had agreed to do.

  Emil held up well throughout the meal and dessert, but by the time Paul poured them coffee, his face was gray and strained. “Paul,” he said, “I’m afraid I’ve overdone it a bit. Could you…”

  Russ pushed his chair back. “We ought to be going.”

  “No, no,” Emil insisted. “I need a little help, but Paul would love to visit some more.”

  “Do me a favor,” Paul said, turning to Clare as he pulled Emil’s chair away from the table and guided him to his feet. “Take the dogs for a turn around the meadow. They haven’t had a chance to get much exercise since we’ve gotten home. I’ll be down as soon as I’ve gotten Emil all set.”

  Russ glanced at Clare. “Sure,” she said. She looked around the glass-topped table at Margy and Hugh.

  “Not me,” Margy said. “I’m going to sit here and digest that wonderful meal.”

  Hugh smiled apologetically at Clare. “Can you manage without me, Vicar? I hate to sound like a weed, but I’ve got allergies on top of allergies. My medication’s holding them at bay, but if I go strolling through all that goldenrod, I’ll turn into a giant inflated sinus. I won’t bore you with the details. It would be too disgusting.”

  Clare laughed. “That’s fine. You two save some coffee for us.”

  The men scraped their chairs away from the table as she stood, and, as if they had been eavesdropping, Gal and Bob bounded over. Russ and Clare both called their good-nights to Emil, who was making his way with difficulty through the French doors.

  “After you,” Russ said, sweeping his hand toward the edge of the patio. She stepped into the grass, the dogs dancing ahead. “So,” he said. “This Hugh seems like a nice guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You been seeing much of him?” He fell into step beside her.

  “We met at Peggy’s party, that night I…the night you came to get me. He called me a few days later and asked if we could get together next time he was in Saratoga.” She shrugged. “So here he is. It’s our first time out together.”

  “Oh.” He yanked a cluster of goldenrod off its stalk and flicked it, piece by piece, into the air. “You think this is going to go someplace?”

  She looked him square in the face. “I thought,” she said, speaking deliberately, “that it would be a good idea for me to start dating. It doesn’t much matter with whom.”

  He looked down, brushing the goldenrod fuzz off his hands. They walked on in silence. The dogs flushed a red-winged blackbird off its perch on a maple sapling and leaped about wildly, trying to catch it. “I understand you visited Leo Waxman before he went into rehab,” he said after awhile.

  She welcomed the change of subject. “I felt like I had to apologize to him—for dropping him. You know the state’s fired him for not reporting the PCB contamination in the quarry pool. Although I understand there are hardly any traces of it now.” She tugged at a stem of Queen Anne’s lace and snapped it off. “They’ve confirmed it was planted there?”

  “That’s what they tell me.”

  “Do you have any idea who did it?”

  “I don’t think we’ll ever be able to tell.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “I know it wasn’t my mother. If she had done it, she would have done it right, and stopped the project cold.”

  She laughed.

  “He’s going ahead with the construction. Did you know that?” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Opperman. He’s renamed the business BWI/Opperman and hired some guy from out of state to act as the general. He bought the land outright, too. No more leasing.”

  “Peggy’s sisters sold it to him?”

  “I guess after everything that happened, they couldn’t get rid of it fast enough.”

  “Huh. What do you want to bet he got the fire-sale rate?”

  He laughed shortly. “He’s one of those guys who can fall into a pile of manure and come up with a fistful of diamonds.”

  She paused. The sun had dropped below the mountains while they had been eating, and the gathering thunderheads were underlined by the dull red glow of the sunset’s echo. The dogs, nosing into a woodchuck hole, were making snuffling noises. She breathed in the smell of the long, ripe grass. “It’s beautiful out here.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I feel so bad for her.” He didn’t ask her to whom she was referring. “It was like she was poisoned by the contamination in the water. And it spread all around her, like a sickness. Everyone lost. No one won.”

  “Opperman did.”

  She swished the stalk of Queen Anne’s lace through the tall grass. “Yeah, well, like you said.” She paused. “He did win, didn’t he?” She looked up at Russ. “He’s got total control now—of the business, the land, the project.”

  Russ nodded.

  “What you said about not knowing how Peggy knew Chris Dessaint?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aren’t there any connections between his life and hers?”

  “Not that we can see. He worked at Shape Industries, which had no connection to her real estate and development business, he moved in completely different social circles, and, according to witnesses, he didn’t use drugs. Wintour hasn’t confessed, but Dr. Scheeler thinks Dessaint was knocked out by a blow to the head and then injected with an overdose of heroin. The only way in which he and she intersect is that he was one of those hard-core paintball players. But even if he did use her land once in awhile, she only dealt with the league organizers. Just made arrangements over the phone. She never laid eyes on the players.”

  She closed her eyes. A refreshing breeze sprang up, the leading edge of the front carrying the storm over the mountains. She shivered, and her arms goosefleshed. She opened her eyes. Looked at Russ.

  “Opperman played paintball.”

  He looked as if she had slapped him.

  “Remember? Stephen Obrowski said so. Opperman stayed in the area lots of weekends. He played paintball.”

  “Jesus,” he said. “Jesus, you’re right.”

  They stared at each other. It was a horrible feeling, like opening up a nice, neatly wrapped package to find something dead and rotting inside.

  Russ strode off, his head bowed. She skip-hopped to keep up with him. “Opperman,” he said. The dogs bounded beside them. “He could have seeded the pond himself before that poor sucker Waxman tested it.”

  “The night of the town meeting, Ingraham said something about them being involved once before on a project that had PCB contamination. He said they were still involved with the cleanup.”

  “So Opperman has access to some of that sludge. Waxman tests it, comes up with an off-the-chart level, and runs to Opperman, who offers him a job to keep him quiet. Then he makes sure Peggy knows. Maybe he even drops rumors around town.” He stopped abrupt
ly, causing Clare to stumble to a halt. “But there really is contamination in the groundwater. That little bit in the quarry pool couldn’t have caused that.”

  She caught at his arm. “Don’t you see? Leo Waxman was right. Even though he thought he was lying, he was right. The PCBs are coming from the Allen Mill cleanup.”

  Russ spun on his heel and struck off in another direction. “Peggy thinks she’s about to be screwed out of her deal. Opperman—what? He whispers in her ear? Makes suggestions? If it was just the two of them, he wouldn’t back away from the project? They could split the profits two ways instead of three?”

  “And then he points her to Chris Dessaint, who has already proven his mettle by beating up some unlucky soul outside a Lake George bar.”

  “She does the rest. She thinks fast; we saw that. He must have known how smart she was.”

  “Not smart enough to know she was being manipulated.”

  He turned to her and clutched her upper arms. “She got rid of his partner for him. And then he got rid of her. In self-defense.”

  The speculation, the whole idea, gave her a sour feeling in her stomach. “Puppets playing puppets,” she said. “And over them all, one puppet master.” She shuddered. “God, it’s vile. And she turned to him in the end. Like an abused woman running back to the man who beats her.”

  “Where else did she have to go? Maybe she thought he could protect her. After all, there was no warrant out for his arrest.”

  Russ was still holding Clare by the arms. “And now?” she asked.

  He leaned forward until his forehead was touching hers. “And now nothing.” His voice was flat. “This is all just you and me talking. I can’t think of a shred of evidence to back up anything we’ve said. And even if we could prove he knew Dessaint, what’s he guilty of? Giving away someone’s phone number?”